


Camelot Reborn

by Medrawd



Category: Merlin (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9380102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medrawd/pseuds/Medrawd
Summary: The sequel to The Day Camelot Fell.Arthur is back on the throne, but is Camelot really safe...?This story is proofread and edited by Terrin Pendragon.





	1. 1

_Two days. It’s been two days now, and still I can’t talk about it without bursting into tears. Two long, endless, tortuous days._

_King Arthur, the late Arthur I should say, there, on the battlefield of Camlann, dubbed me Knight of Camelot only two days ago. Me, a mere squire to Sir Baudwin. The late Sir Baudwin. And former squire now. A few hours later Arthur was dead, killed by that Mordred. I was there, at Camlann, when Arthur died. I remember walking away, there was nothing left to fight for, nor anyone left to fight against. Camelot died that day, Albion died that day, and I died that day. I can hardly remember anything apart from the silence. And carrion-birds. Carrion-birds and silence. I felt as if my soul had left my body, my legs were moving without me knowing. Don’t think I left my friends behind there on the battle-field, although it may seem so to you, please don’t think ill of me. Too many deaths, I guess… But the worst was yet to come. Suddenly I found myself in the woods where I saw a man, a knight, kneeling, holding another man in his arms. I couldn’t see who it was, but he was grieving, that I could see. Grieving for a fallen comrade no doubt, perhaps he had dragged him there for safety. I took a few more steps and then I saw it: Gwaine. It was Gwaine. I remember running towards them, shouting, crying. “Not Gwaine, please don’t let it be Gwaine” I remember yelling, at least I think that’s what I shouted. The knight, Percival, I recognised him now, looked up, startled, but I didn’t see him. All I could see was Gwaine. I knelt and hooked his hair behind his ear, cradling his head. He was dead. I was overcome with grief, as I still am. I remember vaguely Percival’s hand on my shoulder, trying to give comfort while he himself had only grief to give. What happened next I don’t know anymore, everything is hidden deep in my mind, only a few vague memories like intangible wisps of fog remain. I felt my strength flowing into Gwaine. I am also a druid you know, have been since birth. I know how to heal people. Oh, I wanted so desperately to restore Gwaine’s life to him, I was totally willing to give up my own so he could live. I know I tried, giving everything I had and more, trying to get just one tiny spark of life back into Gwaine’s now ice-cold body. The world around me no longer existed, all I could see was Gwaine’s beautiful face, and then there were shadows, spectres, all around me, almost like ghosts. I felt a hand on my shoulder, gently trying to tear me away from Gwaine. There was a comfortable warmth in his touch, a reassurance even. I felt weak, so terribly weak. It must have been the druids, I’m certain of it. Almost certain. I thought I heard them talking, something like “don’t worry, we will take care of him now”. I must have walked away, it was a great day for walking away…, and now I am here, in this little village where there is only talk of the massacre at Camlann and Arthur’s death. I still don’t know how I got here. I must stop now, I can write no more, too much grief._

_My name? Galahad. Sir Galahad, Knight of Camelot._

 

*

 

“May I have the honour of this dance, my Lady?” Arthur said, bowing, as he offered his hand to Gwen. She smiled and tenderly took his hand in hers, and together they strode onto the still empty floor of the lavishly decorated Banqueting Hall.

The musicians began to play a lively and merry tune on their fiddles and pipes and drums; and Gwen and Arthur opened the ball, the first in many years, and just a few weeks after the recapture of Camelot. A thunderous applause sounded, drowning out the music, and many a goblet was raised as the couple made their first graceful steps. Soon more couples followed, and it did not take long before the Hall was one giant whirling and colourful sea of merry splendour.

Hundreds and hundreds of expensive beeswax candles were burning brightly in dozens of chandeliers and candelabrums, setting the Hall and everyone in it in a rich and golden light. All the knights, whether survivor or newly dubbed, had donned their best mail shirts and armour, polished to a brilliant shine, reflecting the candle-flames a thousand times over; and all the ladies were wearing their most beautiful gowns in silk and brocade, many specially made for this evening, and their most gorgeous jewellery was sparkling like thousands of bright little stars.

Merlin too had new clothes, gone were his simple tunic and jacket of old; he now wore a lush green linen tunic trimmed with bands of dark red, and a leather jerkin dyed the same red colour as the knight’s gambesons.

The feasting would last for a whole week throughout the entire kingdom of Camelot, and there would be a tourney and a joust, and, on the last day, a mêlée. Arthur, however, much to his distress, could not compete, for he was still too weak, but he had already been training with the knights, and his strength was rapidly returning, and all expected him to compete and win next year.

“Are you going to the market square tomorrow?” Leon asked Percival as he popped another pickled egg in his mouth, washing it away with a large swig of ale, “The stage players have finally come to Camelot”.

“Of course,” Percival answered, picking clean a roasted pheasant leg, “I’ve been looking forward to it for days now. Merlin, didn’t you want to come too?”

“Yes, absolutely, and I’m sure Arthur can do without me for one afternoon,” Merlin said, looking pleadingly at Arthur. He too had heard of the play, it was supposed to be filled with all kinds of magic. There already were carts with scenery on the market square where a troupe of wandering players performed their tale involving an enchanted island, a spirit who supposedly appears and disappears from thin air, a horrifying harpy, disappearing tables and there was even talk of a real tempest! Surely they must use real magic, Merlin thought.

“Of course you can go, Merlin, but only if you wash my shirts and polish my boots this very night, I need them clean by tomorrow,” came Arthur’s carefully even voice, “and don’t forget to polish my armour too.”

“Or Merlin can wash them the day after tomorrow,” Gwen said, gently patting Arthur’s arm, “you have plenty of clean shirts, and I’m sure there’s a kitchen boy somewhere willing to polish your boots.”

“You might want to come too, Sire, I’ve heard there’ve staged something especially for you,” Merlin said with a frolicsome twinkle in his eyes, “A booth with glove puppets,” and then he quickly had to duck, trying not to get hit by the cream pie Arthur had thrown at him. Laughter erupted, and with a single glance it was understood between Arthur and Merlin that he could go and watch the play, and not do all those chores tonight Arthur had joked about.

 

*

 

“He has risen,” they hissed, “‘tis done, he has return’d.” Three hideous creatures were stirring in a huge cauldron. The foul-smelling liquid inside it bubbled and almost cried out in agony as more and more indefinable bits were thrown in. “Why has he risen,” they hissed angrily, “‘tis not something that should have happened.” The cave now filled with smoke, thick and green and smelling of rotten eggs. The three sisters, for sisters they were, stood there with their backs bent; dirty, grey-white hair hanging down their faces, obscuring their totally black eyes. The hissing continued, a snake-like sound coming from almost toothless mouths. Their gnarled hands with long, dirty fingernails clutched the ladle as they kept stirring, oblivious to the intense heat from the fire. “We must not tarry, and act with haste,” they hissed. “for Camelot was almost ours, we must not fail now.”

“But she is not ready,” they answered themselves, “we must do more if we are to succeed.”

A handful of dried bat-wings found their way into the cauldron, turning the liquid from green to the most blackest of black. “On the morrow, when the sun rises, ’tis ready to be sure,” they hissed and they kept on stirring, not needing any rest nor sleep, “And on the new morn she must be made ready too.”

 

The next day the liquid was as clear as water, and the three sisters hissed: “’tis finally ready, now she must be made to drink it.” They poured some of it in a crude wooden beaker, and with faltering steps made their way into the deepest recesses of the cave. No light penetrated there, and the one small flickering candle was unable to drive away the darkness.

“Drink,” they commanded, and they poured the liquid into the slightly open mouth of the woman who was laying there, her hair like a black halo around her head. The three sisters held out their hands, eyes closed in utter concentration, murmuring dark and ancient spells, from a distant time before the Old Religion, under their breath. Suddenly the woman let out a gasp, followed by a coughing fit as she tried to sit up. Her eyes suddenly opened wide, feral eyes nervously looking to and fro, and then she fell back again, but now her breathing was deep and there was colour on her face again. The three sisters looked at each other and smiled their toothless smiles. “‘tis done,” they hissed, “she has return’d. Soon Camelot will be ours. Now we must make her do our bidding.”

 

*

 

“Ohhhhh!” The crowd gathered on the market place let out a collective gasp at seeing the spectacle unfolding before their eyes and involuntarily they all took a step backwards, for there, right in front of their eyes, appeared the most hideous creature they had ever seen. A harpy, a terrible creature that surely could only have come from beyond the Veil appeared with a blinding flash and thunderous noise on stage, screeching and waving its skeletal wings, bones with rotting and decaying pieces of flesh sticking out of its body, tufts of lank and greasy hair clinging to its skull, and speaking in a distorted voice not from this world. Another flash, and in the blink of an eye a table laden with food disappeared into thin air. One woman in the crowd let out a scream and fell into a swoon, while others were suddenly looking extremely pale and uncomfortable.

“It’s all done with smoke and mirrors you know, it’s not real,” Leon whispered in Merlin’s ear, sensing his distress and thinking Merlin was scared out of his wits; but it was not from fear that Merlin had turned as white as a sheet, for he had sensed something: magic. He concentrated, closing his mind to anything around him but the players on the stage, and then he felt powerful magic emanating from the player hidden inside the harpy costume. Could it really be you? Merlin thought, after all these years?, and a smile came to his lips, for he thought he had recognised the man playing that terrible creature. I must go to him right after the show, he said to himself, and tried to enjoy the rest of the performance, all but jumping up and down with excitement with both the play and the prospect of seeing an old friend again. A band now appeared on stage playing a lively tune, and six players were engaged in an intricate dance of attracting and rejecting, trying, unsuccessfully and to the delight of the audience, to break up the two lovers.

A few hours later and the play came to a happy end. The crowd cheered loudly, clapping their hands and stamping their feet as the players went round with hats in their hands, hoping the audience would honour them with a few coins, which they generously did; and there was also the promise of a hot supper in the kitchens of Camelot. Slowly the market place emptied as everybody went their separate ways, back to their workshops and houses, and all still in awe at what they had just witnessed. The players in the meantime had quickly closed the front of their carts with thick leather curtains, brightly painted with scenes from their plays, for they did not want anyone inside so they could see and discover the secrets of their trade.

“Are you coming with us?” Leon asked Merlin, pointing with a half-eaten apple in his hand at the lazily swinging sign of The Rising Sun, it’s painted golden sun sparkling brightly in the afternoon sun. “I’m parched.”

“No…” Merlin said absent-mindedly, and he let his gaze wander over the players, and to one in particular. “Things to do, sorry…,” and he took a few tentative steps to the biggest cart into which the players had disappeared.

Leon raised an eyebrow. Merlin not visiting the tavern? That play really had done something to him, must have shaking him to the bone. So Leon, Percival, Kay and Gaharis walked without Merlin to the tavern, laughing and boasting, counting their coin, and each claiming to know exactly which tricks the players had used.

Merlin quickly crossed the market place, walked up the few steps leading to a small door at the back of the players’ wagon, knocked and said: “hello…?”, and before waiting for an answer he slowly opened the door and peered inside the dimly lit interior.

“I knew you would come,” sounded a voice, shrouded in darkness, “I saw you in the crowd, no, I sensed you first. Welcome!”

The other players kept silent and quietly left as if agreed beforehand as Merlin walked to the other end of the wagon, careful not to trip over all the props and costumes still lying scattered around. “Gilli,” he finally said, smiling broadly, arms extended, and both men embraced each other, both happy to see each other again after so many a year. “I knew it was you, had to be you!”

They both started talking at once, each had so much to tell the other.

“Do you still have your ring?”

Gilli held out his hand and there it was: the magical ring that, many years ago, he had used to defeat his opponents in a tournament at Camelot, until Merlin counteracted his last spell which would have made him defeat Uther, making him the winner. “And it still hasn’t lost it magic,” Gilli said, “on the contrary, and I can perform magic without using the ring now.”

“So you did make that table disappear.”

“Of course, but there is also a trapdoor underneath it, just to fool the likes of Uther and now Arthur. You know Uther…”

“It’s magic, kill it,” Merlin replied, and both started laughing at Merlin’s impersonation of Uther, former king of Camelot. “I sensed magic, you know,” he continued, “strong magic, and somehow I knew it had to be you.”

“I felt the same,” Gilli said, “even before I saw you in the crowd, I knew you were there. I was hoping you would come and see me. If not, I would have come to the castle and search for you. Still the servant I see.”

“Yes, but I like it that way. I know, I can’t use magic as much as I want to, but that’s alright now. It’s my destiny, and I know one day magic will no longer be forbidden.”

“That’s one thing I never could understood,” Gilli said, shaking his head, and there came a hint of anger in his voice, “never using magic, always subservient to Arthur, leading the life of a nobody while you could be so much more, could do so much more. Why, Merlin, why?”

“Yes…” Merlin wanted to tell Gilli all about his destiny, protecting Arthur, but he found he couldn’t. Some things were best left untold. “Yes, but I have my reasons.”

“I’m sure you have.” For a moment an uncomfortable silence could be felt in the air.

“And what about you?” Merlin finally said, trying to lighten the mood.

Gilli took a large swig of water before answering. “After the tournament I wandered through the lands of Albion, seeking employment wherever I could find it, using my magic whenever I could, not all rulers are like Uther you know, until I stumbled upon this troupe. It turned out I was rather good at acting. And magic.

You know, the players welcomed me with open arms once they knew I was a sorcerer, for their own sorcerer had been executed, here in Camelot believe it or not. Thank you Uther, thank you so very much! Luckily it didn’t happen during a show, the whole troupe would have been killed, but he was using sorcery in a tavern, performing some innocent parlour tricks. Unfortunately some of Uther’s soldiers were present and, well…”

For a moment both men didn’t say anything.

“That’s why we have a trapdoor in the floor,” Gilli continued, “to make it all look harmless, make it look like some clever trick.”

“Smoke and mirrors,” Merlin said, “That’s what Sir Leon said, smoke and mirrors. But only a few weeks ago Arthur said something about making the use of magic no longer forbidden.”

Gilli snorted. “And you believe that? No, that will never happen. Arthur is just as bad as his father. No offence,” he quickly added.

“None taken, but people can change, you know, even Arthur.”

“Can a wildeorren change his habits and start eating plants instead of people?” Gilli said bitterly. “But let’s not discuss all this now, let’s have a bit of fun. I want to hear all the gossip about Camelot, and how Uther died and what Arthur’s like. I’m sure you know a tale or two. Come with me to the tavern.”

“Only if you will tell me all of your adventures,” Merlin said, smiling and feeling good about having found a long lost friend.

“You should come with us,” Gilli said as they walked to the Rising Sun, “You would make an excellent jester.”

“I could always turn the audience into white rabbits,” and both men laughed as they entered the tavern.

 

*


	2. Chapter 2

 

“Are you sure you can joust?” a concerned Percival asked Leon, as he looked involuntary at the latter’s crippled leg.

“Of course I can joust,” Leon answered irritably, tugging a bit too violently at the straps of his vambraces while Loholt, his squire, was trying to fasten the cumbersome jousting gorget. “My horse must run, not me,” and his thoughts went back to the last few years, taken captive by the Saxons, the way they broke his leg, the way they tortured him to get information on Camelot’s strength and weaknesses; but Leon never spoke, for the one thing the Saxons could not break had been his spirit, his undying loyalty to Arthur and Camelot. Then the clarions sounded, and with a jolt Leon was back on the jousting field. “Now get me my helmet,” he snapped at Loholt, and feeling instantly ashamed for his behaviour.

Soon the knights were ready, eager to prove their jousting skills, and not thinking of the danger. The lances were made of a very light wood that would break easily, splinters could still fly through the eye-slits of their helmets or unprotected areas of their bodies, and even one splinter could maim or kill. There was great cheer from the crowd as the knights entered the tournament field and the herald announced them one by one. They all gave their token to the herald, each hoping their token would be the last one on the board, declaring them the winner. The knights mounted, assisted by their squires, for mounting a horse in full jousting armour is no easy task.

“Welcome, honourable knights, fair citizens of Camelot,” Arthur said, “I won’t bore you with a long speech, but I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you all after all these years, to actually be here, and to finally see a proper joust again. Please enjoy yourselves, and remember: last man standing wins the prize!” and with these words he sat down again, smiling, as the crowd let out a deafening cheer.

“Honourable Knights of Camelot,” the herald said as soon as the noise from the rambunctious crowd had died down, “welcome to this very first joust after many a year. This joust as you all know is open to the Knights of Camelot only, and please do not forget this is a joust _à plaisir_ ,” and the herald looked sternly at the row of mounted knights as he announced this: _no killing or maiming each other_.

“Sir Dinadan and Sir Ector,” he shouted and the first two knights took up their positions. They closed their visors, and shifted in the saddle, trying to get as comfortable as possible. A flag fell and two horses thundered toward each other, the knights balancing their lances, trying to see their opponent through the narrow slits in their helmets, aim their lance and hit the other at exactly the right spot.

Wood smashed into steel, splinters were flying everywhere, but they did not fall off their horses. Quickly both knights rode to the end of the field, took a new lance their squires held ready, and seconds later they made a second attempt of unhorsing one another. Steel-shod hooves were kicking up clouds of dust and clumps of grass, and another clash of wood on steel. Sir Ector was bending dangerously backwards, but by sheer determination he managed to hold on and stay in the saddle. He grabbed another lance and for the third time he raced towards Sir Dinadan, but now he was not so lucky. The iron fist at the tip of Dinadan’s lance hit him squarely on his shoulder, he felt himself gliding from the saddle and he crashed to the ground. His squire came running to him as the crowd cheered Sir Dinadan. From the corner of his eye Ector could see the herald taking his token from the board as he limped towards the pavilion. There would be no more jousting for him that day.

 

And so, as the afternoon progressed, more and more knights saw their token taken down until there were only two knights left: Sir Leon and Sir Lanval. With great difficulty, and with the assistance of Loholt, Leon had mounted his horse, for he was very tired, and his leg was throbbing painfully making him all but physically sick. It had taken all his strength and more to stay in the saddle today, and he could not give up now. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, trying to ease the tension in his muscles, trying to forget the pain.

“I must win this one,” he muttered to himself, “I must prove that I am still a Knight of Camelot, fully capable to fight, and my leg is a mere inconvenience, easily forgotten.” And so, as he mounted his trusted horse, he clenched his teeth, trying not to scream out in pain. The flag fell, and within seconds it was all over, for, with one well-aimed thrust, Leon had managed to unhorse his opponent. His vision blurred, and for a fraction of a second his world went black; the jousting field turned into a dungeon with screaming prisoners, for the breaking of the lance had reminded him of the breaking of his own bones again, and he saw the Saxons hovering over him, sneering, breaking his leg, twisting it... He slumped in the saddle, almost falling off and the remains of the lance slipped from his fingers. Loholt quickly helped him slide off his horse, supporting him, trying not to show the crowd, the knights and Arthur how worn-out and near collapse Leon really was. Leon smiled as he saw his token on the board, the only token still left, and somewhere he found the strength to raise his arms in victory as the crowd cheered and applauded him. Arthur too was applauding and beckoned him towards the Royal Stand. Slowly Leon limped towards Arthur, unaided by Loholt who had stayed behind, thinking: Leon must do this alone, stand there alone, strong and without aid.

Meanwhile all the knights had mounted again and were forming one big and colourful wall on the jousting field. The herald formally gave Arthur Leon’s token, indicating he truly was the winner.

Arthur took the token in both hands and said: “Sir Leon, it is my great privilege and joy to present you with the prize for winning this historical joust, the first joust of a new Camelot,” and with these words Arthur presented Leon with a beautifully crafted ceremonial sword, engraved with delicate and intricate scrollwork, and it had a golden hilt with a ruby set into the pommel. Leon carefully took the sword in his trembling hands and said: “Thank you, my lord”. Behind him the knights raised their swords and shouted as one man: “For the love of Camelot!”, and soon everybody, knight and citizen alike, was chanting the same words over and over again, and there was shed many a tear of joy.

Then Arthur raised his hand, asking for silence. Slowly the noise died down, and everybody stood in anticipation waiting for Arthur’s words. Even the horses were quiet, sensing something special was about to begin. For a moment Arthur gazed over the jousting field with all those newly dubbed Knights of Camelot, and felt a sudden sadness at seeing so very few of the old knights, and he let his gaze wander over the packed stands with loyal citizens, happy again after so many years of Saxon attacks and the short, but harsh Saxon rule. He smiled and then he spoke, his voice carrying to every corner of the stands.

“Firstly, I can’t begin to feel you how happy I am, and to be able to see you all and---” Here Arthur’s words were drowned out by the deafening noise of the cheering crowd and the banging of the knight’s swords against their shields. Arthur fell silent for a moment, smiling at Gwen and squeezing her hand. “Today has been a most wonderful day in a long time—” More cheering erupted. “—and together we will build a new and stronger Camelot!” The Knights now all raised their swords and again shouted as one man: “For the love of Camelot!”, and the crowd immediately followed suit, and behind him Arthur heard Merlin and Gaius shouting too.

“For decades now,” Arthur continued, “any form of sorcery has been forbidden here in Camelot, a ban first established by my father Uther, and I had good reasons to continue with that ban, for, as you all probably know, my father was killed by using magic. Evil magic. Dark magic.” The crowd now was quiet, and an uncomfortable silence had descended like a thick, black cloud on a sunny day, making everything bleak and dreary and cold. There were many amongst the citizens who practiced magic, or knew someone who was a sorcerer; and all grew restless, expecting the worst, Merlin included. He knew all too well Arthur suspected him of being a sorcerer too… His mouth went dry and he looked at Gaius who gave him a reassuring, albeit weak, smile.

“But I have come to realise magic can also be a good thing. If it wasn’t for magic, I wouldn’t stand here before you today, and I’ve learned it was dark magic thwarting the good magic that the sorcerer used to heal my father. Therefore I declare that henceforth magic is no longer forbidden---” Here Arthur paused for a second as there descended a great silence over the crowd, a silence of disbelief and confusion, but within seconds there sounded an ear-shattering cheer. All their pent-up fears and anxieties found an outlet, they could hardly believe what they had just heard, magic no longer forbidden? It sounded too good to be true. Not all cheered, however, there were still a number of people who, like Uther, had always despised magic and still did.

In the crowd Gilli felt elated too, finally he could realise his dream of a show filled with magical tricks for all to see. Tricks to amaze and delight his audience, but part of him still thought he was dreaming and this was not happening. A Pendragon announcing magic is no longer outlawed, no longer punishable by death. Suppose this is a trick, he said to himself, suppose everyone Arthur suspected of being a sorcerer will now be arrested and executed on the spot, so Arthur can finish what Uther had started. In the crowd he could see a man with a bright flame dancing in the palm of his hand, and smiling he looked around, but nervously stealing a glance at Arthur, as if to say: look, we can do this now without being hunted down and killed. Gilli saw Arthur looking at the man, and Arthur’s face darkened, but nothing happened, no command to execute the man was given. Slowly Gilli began to realise Arthur’s words had been sincere and the dark cloud surrounding him vanished.

Merlin too felt relieved and happy, but his soul was in turmoil as he suddenly realised he could never tell Arthur the truth now, not when he had lied to him so many times, telling Arthur again and again he was not a sorcerer. He was afraid that Arthur would be furious and ban him from Camelot or even worse, kill him or throw him in an oubliette, to be forgotten forever. He looked at Gaius, and saw tears from happiness streaming down his deeply wrinkled cheeks. Gaius would have no trouble using magic, for Arthur already knows he is a sorcerer, Merlin thought and he felt happy for him. He could hear Gilli’s words again, accusing him of being a nobody, afraid of being found out, forever living in hiding.

“But…,” Arthur continued as the tumult had died down enough for him to make himself heard again, “but this applies only to the use of magic for good. Dark magic will be dealt with swiftly and harshly. Anyone caught practicing dark and evil magic will immediately be put to death.” He could see a few people scuttling away, trying to make themselves invisible and he almost imperceptibly nodded to the guards, indicating where they went. Within mere minutes the suspects were securely in the dungeons, to be dealt with later, although one of them managed to kill one of the guards by using dark magic before his heart met with the sharp steel of another guard’s sword.

“And,” Arthur continued, “I also declare that druids are no longer outlawed, but are free to come and go as they please, provided they come with peaceful intentions of course.”

“Have you gone mad,” Arthur suddenly heard an angry voice in his head, ”Are you trying to bring down Camelot with this folly? I have been striving to…,” the voice now was a piercing scream, causing Arthur to flinch and clasp his head in agony. “For decades I’ve been trying to safeguard Camelot from sorcery, making it a safe place, and you are willing to throw all that away? You are no longer a son of mine, Arthur Pendragon, and you are not worthy to even carry the name of Pendragon! This will not be the last of it, you can be sure of that!” The voice of Uther cut through his head, like a thousand sharp knives slicing through every fibre of his body. Uther’s face was now flesh, now a skull, shrouded in wisps of fog; features snarling, eyes flashing. Arthur saw himself standing between giant standing stones, all shrouded in an eerie bluish light, Uther’s voice reverberated from all directions, pounding into Arthur’s head. The world was spinning and Uther’s voice screaming wordless sounds kept slamming onto Arthur’s whole body. “You worthless, ill-begotten spawn of malicious magic, soon you will join me here, I will make sure of that, and woe that day!”

“Sire, are you alright?” came the worried voice of Gaius as he saw Arthur tremble all over. ”You were gone for a second there.”

“Yes, Gaius, I’m fine,” Arthur said with difficulty, wiping his sweaty hands on his robe and thought: only a second? For me it had felt like hours… Uther’s voice now had faded and the pain was almost gone. “There was a voice…,” he murmured, more to himself than others, and he stood erect once more, overlooking the crowd.

Gaius looked at Merlin, unsure of what to do, but before Merlin could say anything, Percival shouted “Long live the King!” and all the knights followed suit: “Long live the King!” And as more and more people joined in, the incident was soon forgotten.

 

*

 

_Two years. It’s been two years now to this day since the world died, and in all that time I’ve thought hundreds of time about returning to Camelot. I know, it’s disgraceful, but somehow I couldn’t find the strength to actually go there. Too many sad memories… I sometimes wonder if there is a Camelot left, and if there is, will the knights remember me? Probably not, most of them, all of them, died at Camlann anyway. I’m not worthy of being a knight of Camelot anymore, I’m a disgrace to Arthur, to myself, to the whole knighthood, to Gwaine… Not a day passes by without me thinking of him. Why did he have to die… The greatest, bravest knight who ever lived._

_I tried to return to Camelot some weeks ago, but there were too many Saxons roaming the countryside. Their numbers are slowly but surely increasing, more and more are coming to our shores, invading our country. I’m not recognisable as a knight of Camelot anymore, far too dangerous. So now I drift from village to village, hoping to get some work so I can buy some food. How glamorous the life of a knight is…_

They sat huddled around a small fire, Morgana and the three sisters, its thick yellow smoke slowly curling upwards and filling the small cave with an almost unbearable stench. They had clasped each other by the hand and their eyes were closed as the sisters in a low and murmuring voice chanted their spells. They had been chanting for hours now, throwing many different herbs into the fire, and all kinds of dried bits like claws and ears and legs of strange creatures not found in all the lands of Albion and beyond. They were repeating the same words over and over again until all four had fallen into a trance. Time had stopped as the words became almost alive, filling the cave with one thought and one thought only: seize Camelot and kill Arthur. Morgana’s lips moved soundlessly, forming the words in her mind: “ _Hergian Castel Camelot, ábredwian Arthur_ ”, and the words formed themselves into a powerful spell, burning itself into her brain, ready to cast without even needing to think about it. New words now formed, words intended to give pain and suffering to Arthur, both in this world and the next: “ _Aþrówian, hearmcwalu! Déaþcwalu!_ ”; and now the sisters chanted spells to increase Morgana’s magical powers, to give her magic she should not possess, invoking all the evil creatures from the Shadow World: “ _Unrihtlyblác_ ”. And so Morgana’s mind was poisoned with magic more evil than she had ever had, made even stronger with the words the sisters had spoken to her earlier: how it was Arthur who had caused her death, how he should be revenged, and how Morgana was the rightful ruler of Camelot; and they bound their minds to Morgana’s, making sure she would do as they commanded.

They had not forgotten all the cruelties Uther had done to them and their kind, and all the things Arthur had done; and they had not forgotten how they had almost succeeded in killing Arthur on the fields of Camlann, for it had been them who had guided Mordred’s deadly sword into Arthur’s body; and they had not forgotten how they had been thwarted by their nine sisters of the Isle of Avalon, snatching Arthur from right under their noses, bringing him to Avalon to heal, the one place where the three sisters could not reach him.

And Morgana saw in her mind the lifeless bodies of Arthur and Merlin; and she saw Mordred. Very vague, as he was walking through a thick and wet fog, but see him she did; and she called out to him, but she could not yet reach his mind. Then, with a piercing scream, Morgana and the sisters woke up from their trance, and she felt both immensely tired and immensely powerful.

 

*

_to be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

“There is still good in him, there is still compassion in his heart. I see it, I feel it.”

“Yes, but there is so much blackness in his soul, that too you can see.”

“I cannot agree, the goodness is still strong, it will drive away the evil in time.”

“We do not know that, nor do we have the time, for we have seen the future unfold.”

“That was but one possible future, its outcome may never come to pass.”

“What more can we do, we have done all that was in our power to do. We must now let the future unfold itself as it were meant to be.”

“But we can still shape that future, the killer need not kill again.”

The three ancient druids sat in a circle around a blazing campfire, although the sun was high in the sky and the heat was oppressing. They were looking at the young man who was chopping wood, his long black hair obscuring his face, sweat pouring from his muscular torso disfigured by a huge white scar across his abdomen, and with great force he let the heavy axe fall, splitting yet another log in two. He hooked his damp hair behind his ear, revealing two dark eyes, cruel and kind at the same time, and said: “Is this enough for you?” indicating at the huge pile of firewood.

“For the moment, yes,” Galvin, the smallest of the three, said.

“Is there ever enough…,” Calder remarked, and he shivered, for there was always a chill in his old bones, no matter how hot it was.

“When will we make him remember?” Dinsmore asked softly, still looking at the young man as he pulled a plain, brown tunic over his head. No-one spoke, for they themselves had been asking that very same question for the last five years, ever since the day they had found him, on the plains of Camlann, the one with one last breath in his dying body; and they had taken him to their island, far from Camelot. “There is still some goodness in him, some loyalty,” they had said, “we can heal him, we can heal his body, we can heal his soul, and we can heal his mind,” and with their magical powers they tried to block all that was evil in him, and nurture all that was good; but his hatred was strong, and the magical walls were fragile at best.

And on that same day they also found another survivor of that gruesome battle where Arthur had fallen, a boy of not yet twenty summers, but already a Knight of Camelot, who sat there, cradling the head of a fallen knight, crying. “Don’t worry, we will take care of him now,” they said, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, for they sensed that the soul of that fallen knight, whom they instantly had recognized as Gwaine, was still clinging to his body, but the diaphanous threads of life were all but severed and could break at any moment. The youth stumbled away, and the druids immediately performed their healing magic on Gwaine, hoping they were not too late; but then they felt another life-force flowing through Gwaine trying to heal him, and instantly they knew: the youth who had walked away had druidic powers, healing powers, and he had given all he had to Gwaine. They longed to know who he was, this young knight, but to this very day they had never been able to find out. And so for the last five years they had nursed Gwaine, slowly giving back his life, magically healing as much treads of his life and soul as they could, but he still had not woken, and was lying on his bed, his face serene, his breathing calm; and in time the wounds on his body healed, leaving nothing but ugly scars, the wounds on his soul had been too severe, and they had never been able to heal it completely.

And so the druids walked the path of utter caution, knowing the man who was chopping wood and went by the name of Mordred was the one who had put the sharp steel through Arthur’s body; and they also knew it was Morgana who had filled Mordred’s head with an all-consuming hatred of Arthur, driving away all that was good in him.

And so they kept Mordred in the dark as to who he was and what he had done until they had managed to transform some of his hatred into kindness, and they also had instilled some loyalty to Arthur back into him, loyalty he already possessed, but the druids fount it was buried very deep within him, hidden under layers of accumulated hatred; but the druids created pathways in his mind, trying to unlock some of that loyalty, thus piece by little piece hoping to replace the hatred.

And the druids also with much concern said: “We must shield Gwaine’s brain too so he will not remember Mordred, lest he wakes up and do Mordred grievous harm, for he knows it was Mordred who killed Arthur. We must cast the spell of forgetfulness on him too,” but they dared not, fearing it might damage Gwaine, for his mind was still very fragile, and the powerful spell might do more harm than good, destroying Gwaine’s mind forever; and so they used simple spells to weave a veil of forgetfulness, knowing full well it would not conceal all his memories for long, but it was all they could do until Gwaine would be stronger.

But they were unaware that Mordred had heard a voice in his head, the voice of Morgana calling out to him, and Mordred was very confused, for he did not know who it was that was calling him or why; and so Morgana’s words pounded against the thoughts and feelings and barriers the druids so carefully had made.

 

*

_Has it really been five years already? Five long and tortuous years of roaming the far and wide of Albion and beyond. I even crossed the waters to Brittanny once, selling my sword to all who would pay, and competing in a mêlée or two, hoping to win me some armour and perhaps even a horse. And coin of course, lots of coin. Make no mistake, I can fight, my cousin Lancelot taught me well. I actually did win a few times: I defeated a knight and took his arms and armour and his destrier, and a very good horse it was too. And I managed to ransom another knight, the son of some wealthy ruler. I got a shock as he removed his helmet, because for a moment I thought I was looking at Gwaine. Same face, same hair, but it wasn’t him. I must have looked quite stupid, standing there like a statue, mouth open like a fish on dry land… The coins are all gone now, spent on food and lodgings and other things. The armour is dented all over now, but at least it gets used and it still offers me good protection. The wealthy can afford to have good armour made._

_I’m in a little village now, and a farmer had directed me to a tavern where I hope to get lodgings for the night. He talked a lot about Saxons, there are rumours everywhere of them coming here, he said, but so far the village was safe. I’ve seen those Saxons a bit too often now. Yes, I’ll be careful, I promised him. He looked at me as if I were the one to protect the whole village single-handedly. Must be the armour I suppose._

_I got another shock as I entered the tavern, for there I saw Percival sitting in some dark corner, all alone. My mind didn’t play tricks on me this time, it really was him. How could I ever forget the face of the man who held a dying Gwaine’s head in his hands. I would recognize that face anywhere. He had changed, though… lost a lot of weight, and his hair was longer and unkempt and he hadn’t shaved for weeks. I’m sure he didn’t know who I was, he had hardly glanced at me on that fateful day. He just sat there, drinking, minding his own business. I thought for a moment of trying to talk to him, but then a man came storming in, shouting something about the Saxons coming and Camelot falling. My worst fears came at that moment to life. Camelot had fallen, he said, and queen Guinevere captured. Well, at least there was still a Camelot. I heard Percival muttering he had to join the army of king Ban, and he walked straight by me as he left the tavern, almost knocking me over. It turned out Ban was the ruler of this little kingdom. I decided to follow Percival to the castle, joining the army to recapture Camelot might be just what I need._

 

_Not long afterwards we marched to Camelot, and, having no horse and no coin to buy one, I had to walk all the way. Me and hundreds more, including Percival. We didn’t meet, however, me being in a different group, but I saw him in the distance. I hate walking. Meet Sir Galahad, the Horseless Knight… Great… I had to leave my heavy plate armour behind, and swap it for a good coat of mail. Lighter and more flexible. I still hate walking and my feet hurt._

_*_

_Arthur lives! I still can’t believe it, but it is true. Arthur is still alive, he managed to survive the massacre at Camlann somehow! I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am. We all are. We met him in a forest somewhere, some knights were with him, and an old man, and someone whom I think used to be his servant, I’ve forgotten his name. He didn’t look too good though, pale and skinny, Arthur I mean, not the servant although he didn’t look too hot either, but at least Arthur lives! We marched the final leagues to Camelot with more hope in our hearts than ever before!_

_Tomorrow we will attack, and rumour has it Arthur himself will lead a detachment of knights!_

_Well, we won! Camelot is no longer a Saxon stronghold. I did manage to somehow lose my helmet by the way, and a Saxon sword almost decapitated me. Luckily some knight of Camelot saved me and the sword only bit into my mail shirt. Good mail it was, still is, all I got was another hole in my now trusted coat of mail, and some severe bruises. What happens next I don’t know. Most of the armies have gone back home, but lots of soldiers wanted to stay behind. I’m one of them, I’ve got nowhere to go anyway, and besides, I am still a Knight of Camelot. I think… Lots of things going on in Camelot right now…_


	4. Chapter 4

As he had done every afternoon for the last five years, Mordred came to Gwaine’s chamber, for he felt sorry for that strange man who could not wake up and just lay there, day after day, unmoving, his mind in a state of everlasting dreams. Mordred looked at him, hoping he might have woken during the night, but every day Gwaine still lay there. “If only I knew who you were,” whispered Mordred, for he did not recognise Gwaine, the druids had hidden that memory, and may others besides, deep within him, and had shielded it with the most powerful spells.

_Light… So much light… It blinds me, where does it come from? Walking in clouds… Faces… I see faces… One face… I know this face… it’s… Where am I? Who am I? Sleep… I want to sleep… sleep…_

“You’re awake,” whispered Mordred, and his heart filled with joy, for he had seen Gwaine’s eyelids flutter for just one brief moment. “You’re awake, please, don’t go again, don’t hide yourself in your dreams again!” Again Gwaine’s eyelids moved. “Galvin! Dinsmore! Calder! Please come, the man you call Gwaine is finally waking up!”

It took a while for the druids to come to Gwaine’s chamber, for they were old and their gouty limbs would not move as well as they had done in their youth.

“Can it really be so?” Dinsmore whispered, and his eyes moistened, dismissing Mordred from the chamber.

_Faces, more faces… Who are they? I must wake… wake… I must please wake up… sleep… sleep…_

“Please wake up,” Galvin said in a hushed voice, gently touching Gwaine’s shoulder.

And then slowly, very slowly Gwaine’s eyes opened a bit. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but no sound came. His mouth twitched, and then his eyes closed again. _I’m in a dream… a different one… there are more faces… I don’t know these ones…_ The three druids kept standing by Gwaine’s bed, waiting, but Gwaine did not move again, but his breathing was stronger now. And they all felt elated, for Gwaine had finally shown a sign of life.

“It is now a matter of time,” Dinsmore said.

“Soon his mind will leave the dream-world,” Calder replied.

“Soon he will be with us again,” said Galvin and the druids left the room, saying to Mordred who had been waiting outside: “Henceforth you are forbidden to enter Gwaine’s chamber, so he can heal in peace,” and with these words they left, leaving Mordred alone outside Gwaine’s chambers, and, as the daylight faded and dusk settled in, he finally left too.

And then, in the middle of the night, Gwaine suddenly opened his eyes and exclaimed: “Mordred!”, but the sound he made was nothing but the merest whisper. _Mordred_ … and then he fell back into an uneasy sleep, haunted by a vision of Mordred bending over him, bloodied sword in hand, haunted by a vision of Mordred killing Arthur over and over again.

*

After a week Gwaine was able to speak again, and he could stay awake for longer periods of time. In that week he never saw Mordred, and he began to think it had all been part of his dream-state; it was not Mordred he had seen when he for a second or two had woken a week ago, it had been nothing but a figment of his imagination, a bad memory that had been haunting him every night. He didn’t even quite know who it had been, that dark-haired youth in his dream, and the memory started to fade like morning dew in the sunshine. Still there must be some truth in it, he thought, dreams like that must have a reason. He had not asked the druids about Mordred, fearing they might not believe him or think he was delusional, and as the druids did not made any mention of him either, he let it rest. It will come back to me once my mind has healed completely, he thought, but he kept feeling uneasy, afraid even, for he dreaded to discover what the truth might be; and he kept thinking: I’ve seen that face before; and slowly the magical fog the druids had placed in his mind started to dissolve.

He was still unaware, however, that Mordred had visited him in the late hours of every night, disobeying the druids, who were always fast asleep at that time.

 

And one night, as Mordred was sneaking towards Gwaine’s chamber, he felt a sharp stab in his head. He cringed with pain, doubling over, almost falling to his knees, doing his best not to cry out and wake up Gwaine or, even worse, the druids. He managed to stumble to some undergrowth, and there he fell down, sobbing. “ _Mordred_ ,” he heard a woman’s piercing voice, “ _Come to me, Mordred_.”

He pressed his hands against his temples, nails digging into his head, trying to squeeze out that voice that was burning into his brain. He saw nothing but flashes of light, felt nothing but a pounding inside his skull and again that voice: “ _Mordred_!”

“Stop, please stop,” he whimpered, violently shaking his head, all but smashing himself into a tree, anything to make it stop. “ _Open your mind, Mordred, destroy the spells preventing you from being your true self. You can do it, Mordred, you can do it. You must do it!_ ” Then it was all over. The voice was gone, he no longer felt that searing pain, and then he lay there for a very long time, panting and sweating, unable to move, trying to make sense of this vision, for not only had he heard that voice, he also had seen the face of a dark-haired woman. A bit blurry it had been, but at the same time very clear. “Who are you, what do you want,” he whispered as he finally made his way to his own chamber. He crashed on his pallet and instantly fell asleep, and slowly Morgana’s magic began to work as the first strands of druidic magic started to unravel, and more and more memories came back to him.

 

Then one night, as Mordred sat in Gwaine’s chambers, hoping he might wake up again, he suddenly remembered who that dark-haired woman was. “Morgana,” he whispered, “you’re Morgana. Now I remember!” And, as the veil of forgetfulness was deteriorating more and more, Mordred’s mind got bombarded with memories. “Please stop,” he whispered as more and more memories flooded his mind, making him forget where he was at. He let out a groan, loud enough to wake Gwaine from his slumber. He sat up in bed, terrified at finding someone in his chambers. 

Both men looked at each other without moving a muscle of making a sound, until Gwaine finally realised the man standing in his chamber was the same man he had seen only a few days ago. Then the simple spells of the druids dissolved completely, and he remembered it all. “You,” he shouted hoarsely, “you traitor, you murderer!” He tried to get out of bed, and was desperately looking for his sword. “You should be dead!”

For a moment Mordred just stood there, a look of bewilderment on his face, but then Mordred’s spell of forgetfulness unravelled even further. “Gwaine,” he said, suddenly recognizing the man, “What’s the matter…, why are you…”

“Murderer!” Gwaine shouted. He tried to run toward Mordred, but his legs defied him and after just one step he fell down. “Where is my sword, I will kill you like you killed Arthur, you cur, you murderous traitor!”

“I don’t understand,” Mordred stammered as he took a step back, still not understanding Gwaine’s anger, “I’m Mordred, I live here with the druids, chopping wood and such. Have I done something wrong? Why are you so angry?”

With all his strength Gwaine tried to crawl to Mordred, ready to fight him with his bare hands.

“Please, Gwaine, I…” At that moment he felt a snap in his head, and the spells the druids had woven completely gave way. His face showed a whole range of emotions as he finally realised why Gwaine was so enraged. “I killed Arthur,” he said softly, “that’s why you’re so angry. I can see it now, that utter disbelief on Arthur’s face…” Gwaine’s hand touched his boot, trying to grab him and make him fall, but Mordred shook him loose and took a step back. “I could kill you just as easily,” he said, but before he could do anything, the door flew open and the druids entered, for they had heard Gwaine scream.

“Don’t come any closer,” Gwaine yelled at the dumbfounded druids, “He’s a killer, he killed Arthur and now he wants to kill me! Get me my sword now so I can silence him once and for all!”

“Please, Mordred,” Dinsmore said pleadingly, wringing his hands, “please…”

 _Let them, Mordred, let them, they are nothing_ , Morgana’s voice sounded in Mordred’s head, _Come, Mordred, come to me so we can finish what we started. Rule Camelot_. Mordred saw Gwaine’s hand clawing to his leg again, but he kicked the hand away. “You are nothing, weakling, you can’t even stand on your own two feet,” he sneered, and with these harsh words he turned on his heels, shoving the druids none too gently aside. “Thank you,” he said formally, “thank you for all you have done for me, but now I must go. Your pathetic spells are broken now, and finally I know who I am and what I must do.” And with these words did Mordred walk away, and he could hear the druids wailing: “we have failed”, but he did not look back.

And still laying on the floor, Gwaine kept yelling: “Murderer! Traitor!”, and he was livid for not being able to go after him. “Why don’t you cast a spell to stop him, to kill him!” Gwaine hollered, “Why don’t you do something!”

The druids shook their heads, for they knew they were powerless against Mordred’s strong magic. Calder and Galvin gently took Gwaine’s arms and tried to drag him back to his bed, but Gwaine would not let them.

With every bit of strength he had left, he managed to crawl back by himself and lie down. “Why did you let him go, he is the one who killed Arthur,” he sobbed, and from sheer frustration from being so helpless he began pounding his fists against the wall, until all his strength was spent. “Why… why…”

“Yes…,” Dinsmore said, “We unfortunately do not have the power to withstand Mordred’s dark magic. Rest now and we will talk in the morning. It is time you were told the whole story.”

Calder in the meantime cast a simple spell of sleep, and it did not take long for Gwaine to close his eyes and surrender himself to the gods of peaceful slumber.

 

_to be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

Finally free of the spells of forgetfulness, Mordred made his way to the cave where Morgana lived, for she had given directions as to where he could find her. He entered the cave and was greeted by the three sisters who brought him to her.

“Hello Mordred,” she said in her usual contemptuous voice.

“Morgana,” Mordred answered curtly, “you have a very painful way of making your presence known to me.”

“But it worked, didn’t it? You’re free again, and alive! Now we can finish what we started, conquering Camelot and kill Arthur for good this time. And get rid of that meddlesome servant of his.”

Mordred said nothing, because for a brief moment he still felt some loyalty to Merlin, his fellow-sorcerer who had helped him so many times when he was still a young boy.

“And look what I found,” she said, indicating five soldiers of Camelot who stood there in a corner, unmoving, eyes hollow and vacant. “You’d be amazed as what a little Nathair snake in the head can achieve... They will do anything I tell them to... This is my plan. They will bring Arthur to me. He won’t suspect a thing, they are his own soldiers after all.”

“Why not kill him there and then, why drag him all the way up to here?” Mordred asked.

“All part of my plan, you will see. And we will also get rid of that idiot of a servant. I’ve been given a spell even he can’t resist! Then we will ride to a hut I have in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, at least I think it’s still there.” Her mouth was set in a malicious grin and her cold eyes spat fire. “You,” she shouted to the five soldiers, “You will go back to Camelot and bring me Arthur, I don’t care how you do it, but I want him alive, remember that! Make sure nobody sees you. Then bring him to my hut, you know the way. Now go!”

Without uttering a sound the soldiers mounted their horses and rode away, back to Camelot, and there was only one thought on their minds: kidnap Arthur and bring him to Morgana.

*

The next day the druids had unsuccessfully tried to calm the still furious Gwaine. Furious at meeting Arthur’s murderer, furious because his feeble state had prevented him from stopping Mordred, and furious at the druids for idly standing by. Nothing the druids said to him could lessen his anger or his impatience. “Make me walk again,” he yelled at the druids, throwing a beaker against the wall, “you have magic, do something!”

“Ours is another kind of magic,” they tried to explain, “our magic is of a delicate kind and takes time.”

“I don’t have time!”

Finally, after long hours of talking and pleading, Gwaine sat down to listen to their story.

“Do you remember how long you have been here with us?” they cautiously asked.

“What, no more than a few weeks I reckon. I know Morgana had captured me, and there was this snake... thing... inside my head...,” and Gwaine fell silent, remembering the intense pain, “then nothing but darkness and suddenly I wake up facing that traitor who should be dead!”

“No, Gwaine, not a few weeks or even months.” The halted, for they knew their next few words could be devastating. “Not a few weeks, but… but…”

“Yes? Tell me, please.”

“Five years,” they mumbled and for a moment they froze, unsure of Gwaine’s reaction.

Gwaine said nothing as he let the words sink in. “Five years?” he whispered. The druids nodded. “Five years? How? Why?”

And then the druids told all, how they had found him, how he was on the brink of death, how they had tried to make him whole again. “You were so incredibly lucky, for there was a young knight of Camelot who found you before we did, and he was the one who gave you life. Gave you back your life. Alas, we never learned his name, nor where he went.”

Gwaine said nothing, and there came an emptiness to his eyes as in his mind he saw a face, featureless and grey, slowly moving like a thick tendrils of fog, a memory he had forgotten, a figment of his imagination as his life fled from him, but that face had not been Percival’s, that he knew. “And what about that murderous traitor?” Gwaine asked, his eyes alive with fire now, his voice full of pent-up anger and hatred.

“We found him too, grievously wounded he was, and we knew we could heal him too, make him an honourable man again, get rid of all the evil inside him. He is not evil at heart, you know, he was made that way.”

“No, he is pure evil,” spat Gwaine, eyes blazing.

The druids said nothing, fearing Gwaine might be right.

And for a long time they sat there until the fire had gone out and the sun was slowly rising above the horizon. A few days later Gwaine, still weak but with great determination, left for Camelot.

 

*

 

And with great haste the five soldiers rode back to Camelot, sparing neither the horses nor themselves, for they did not feel any fatigue not did they need any sleep; and after a few days they reached the castle.

Without a word they dismounted, tied the exhausted horses to a tree and walked towards Camelot, and they hid themselves in the undergrowth, having blowpipes and poisoned darts ready, waiting for Arthur to appear, just as they had been instructed to do.

For hours they had been sitting there in the afternoon sun, amidst the stinging nettles and thorny bushes, but they did not feel any pain nor did the oppressive heat bother them. Finally, as the sun was not an hour away from disappearing beneath the horizon, the main gate of Camelot opened and they saw Arthur and two of his knights riding towards the forest. One of the soldiers ripped his tunic to shreds and cut himself with his sword, so he was bleeding profusely as he stumbled towards Arthur, shouting a warning Morgana had imprinted on his brain: “Take heed my King, take heed and do not come hither, for there are foul, magical creatures lurking in yonder forest!” and with these words the soldier turned and ran to the copse where the other four were still hiding. Quickly Arthur and the knights dismounted, unsheathed their swords and followed him, eager for a fight with that foul and cruel creature that surely must be a danger to Camelot; but the two knights did not get very far, for they got hit by a dart and almost instantly fell down. Upon seeing this, Arthur immediately crouched down, eyes darting to and fro, sword at the ready, but all he saw was the wounded soldier who, as Arthur was distracted from a sound behind him, aimed his blowpipe and a dart embedded itself in Arthur’s neck. His eyes rolled back in his head, but still he managed to take a few faltering steps towards the soldier, a look of utter disbelief on his face. “Why…,” he whispered, “you’re a… Camelot…” Another step and Arthur saw the soldier swinging a heavy cudgel, aimed at his chest, and he was powerless to avoid being hit, and with a sickening crunch he fell down.

Without even looking at Arthur to see if he was still alive or not, two of the soldiers unceremoniously threw him over the saddle, while the others finished off the two unlucky knights; and quickly they rode away, back to Morgana’s little hovel.

 

*


End file.
